


Paella

by mitochondriencocktail



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Dinner, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, New York AU, One Shot, THIS IS INDULGENT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:29:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondriencocktail/pseuds/mitochondriencocktail
Summary: Richard asks Jared to help him cook dinner for his date-- without telling Jared that he's the one he's trying to ask out on a date.





	Paella

**Author's Note:**

> Eurgh, this has been sitting in my drive for ages, so I decided to try and finish it up well enough to post. I'm trying to get back into the grind, so here's some indulgent fluff. They're living in NYC because I'm NY Trash. Any and all feedback is appreciated however, and hopefully I'll start putting some more things out, y'all. You're all amazing, and thanks for the feedback on my other piece!

The sun’s in Richard’s eyes when he asks Jared for help, which feels apropos. It’s an awkward situation he’s put himself in, but only from his perspective. From where Jared stands, he sees only Richard sitting on the couch, sun blinding him.  He’s sitting in the barely passable living room of his shitty New York apartment, evening sun streaming in through his windows, arms folded against his chest; his heart beats rapidly against his ribcage.

“I just thought, you know, since you’re also a vegetarian, you could… uh, help me. Prepare a meal. For… my…” the word sticks in his throat. He prays that Jared doesn’t see through his stupid ruse. “Date,” he forces out. It lands on the ground like a wet fish flopping around out of the water. Richard himself is barely restraining from gasping for breath.

Jared stands in front of him while Richard sits, and it feels like an unintentional position of power; Richard seated below, grovelling for Jared’s help. He knows that that really isn’t the dynamic between them, it never has been and never will be, but right now Richard’s rational thought has been hijacked by a little something called Anxiety. But Jared slowly smiles, and Richard’s heart eases up just a little bit.

“I’d be honored, Richard,” he says. He sets down a glass of water on the makeshift coffee table in front of him. It’s clear that it’s for Richard who’d been coughing just a minute ago. Jared had assumed it was because Richard’s apartment needed a good dusting, but in truth, Richard was achingly nervous and had choked on some of his own spit. “I didn’t know you had a date tonight.” He smiles further, though it’s a bit strained looking, and Richard misses it in favor of looking down at his feet.

Richard shrugs a little too forcibly. “Yeah, well, it sorta just came up. I— I was thinking of going to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients and stuff, and maybe you could come with me, and then we can cook it together.” The words come out in a rush.

“Oh, so…” Jared’s brow furrows together. “You… want me to help you cook your meal for your date tonight?”

Richard nods. He swallows down the lump of anxiety in his throat. “Yeah, I was thinking… uh, we can cook. Together. Like—” Like we’re on a date, Richard wants to say. He freezes, lets his words hang in the air. He wants to clear up the entire thing, tell Jared that he’s trying to ask _him_ on a date, but Richard’s stupid brain won’t let the words come out of his mouth. “Jared—”

“I’d be happy to, Richard,” Jared cuts in. “I’m sure whoever your date is, they’re very lucky.” He stands there, and the setting sun has creeped slowly across the room. Golden light skims the top of his head like a halo. “We’ll make sure it has no cilantro in it, too,” Jared says, and were it anybody else on the receiving end of that comment, they’d have missed the subtle quirk of lips, the hidden joke embedded within. But Richard catches it with eager hands and a happy roll of his eyes.

“Thanks, Jared,” he huffs.

He’ll tell him. Richard will tell Jared at some point very soon before they get to the grocery store.

 

—

 

In an astounding feat of social ineptitude, Richard manages to walk the entire way to the grocery store while still not informing Jared that he’s technically trying to take _him_ on a date. The summer air is sticky, heavy with unsaid words and city pollution, leaving Richard even more choked up than usual. He fiddles with his keys and wallet that are crammed into his pockets along with his hands. Maybe he could tell Jared now? He hazards a glance over. No. No… not now. It’s not. It’s not the time right now, Richard convinces himself.

“So, Richard, what does your date like to eat?” Jared asks. “They’re vegetarian, but is there anything in particular you know about what kind of cuisine they enjoy? Any allergies?”

Richard skims over the list in his head of what Jared likes to eat. The first word that comes to mind is “cereal,” which is honestly just stupid on Richard’s behalf. One of his closest friends for just over a year, and Richard can’t conjure up what Jared likes to eat other than _cereal._ “Uhhh…” he stalls, looking around. There’s a particularly scary group of pigeons in the street that he absently swerves away from. “Paella.” He doesn’t _really_ know what paella is if he’s being honest, but honesty hasn’t been the name of the game today so far, and Richard figures it’s a safe bet. He heard it on a cooking show he caught Erlich watching once.

“Paella? Like a vegetable paella?” Jared actually stops walking and looks over at Richard who just forcefully nods. He takes Richard’s suggestion and he can visibly see Jared turning it over in his head, analyzing it and breaking it down. Hell, probably running a SWOT analysis on it. “Paella,” he finally says again. “That sounds like it’ll be delicious. I think I know a recipe for that.” He smiles to himself a bit dreamily, as if tasting the food right there and then, and nods. “Paella.”

“Paella,” Richard parrots, feeling rather useless.

 

—

 

Landing back in Richard’s apartment with four bags of groceries and a bottle of rosé (not domestic, as per Erlich’s repeated advice), they sigh with exhaustion. Richard’s ankle had been acting up after bungling some stairs on the way back up, and Jared had all but dropped his bags of groceries right there and then to help.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jared asks, unpacking the groceries onto the counter. The clock reads just a little before five, and the setting sun is in full golden force. Richard slouches against the counter.

“I’m okay, I’m okay. I’m just an idiot.” He reaches for the wine and starts uncorking it unceremoniously.

“Richard— what are you doing?” Jared stares wide-eyed, fennel bulb in hand. “Isn’t that wine for your date?”

This is it. This is Richard’s chance, a smooth opportunity to slide in, ‘Oh, no, but don’t you see, Jared? _You’re_ my date. I, a mastermind of flirting, have been wooing you this whole time.’ And then from there the evening could dance jauntily into overtones of romance and smooth jazz or whatever it is Jared likes to listen to.

Instead Richard coughs, lets out an unnecessarily prolonged, “Uh…” and says, “It’s fine.” He uncorks the wine and hastily pours two glasses, handing one to Jared. “It can be our, uh. Cooking wine.” Richard watches his own body passively as it maneuvers clumsily through the action of raising his glass in an unceremonious toast and he downs a large mouthful. Setting his glass down, he claps his hands, and goes, “Alright, let’s get started, shall we.” A bit of wine dribbles out of his mouth and onto his sweatshirt. He’d forgotten to swallow before speaking. Idiot.

“Well, if you say so. I do love a good wine from Castilla La Mancha, it has such wonderful floral notes.” Jared, blessedly, takes a civilized sip of his own glass, but doesn’t break eye contact with Richard.

Richard refrains from commenting that he thinks all wine really tastes the same. Instead, he watches as Jared’s throat bobs as he swallows, and suddenly he feels thirsty again; long fingers wrapped delicately around the bulb of the glass, the warm kitchen lights illuminating Jared’s face. Richard wants to kick something.

“So what should we start with?” he asks.

Jared sets down his glass and hums in thought. “Are you confident with cutting tomatoes?”

“I— yes, I can cut tomatoes.” Richard feels a little silly at having been asked that, but he supposes it’s a valid question considering Jared’s working under the assumption that Richard is so inept, he needs help cooking for his date. In truth, the only thing he’s inept at is revealing to his date that they’re in fact currently on a date of Richard’s devising.

“Great,” Jared says. He moves without instruction around Richard’s kitchen and starts taking out cutting boards and cookware. A knife is placed in Richard’s hand. “You’re on tomato duty. Just cut them into wedges, alright?” Jared smiles down at Richard, and for a brief moment, Richard’s ego feels wounded. He can cut tomatoes into wedges. He’s not an idiot wielding a knife for the first time. He’ll cut these damn tomatoes into wedges so well, Jared won’t know what hit him.

Richard bungles the first of eight tomatoes. Juices squish and squirt out onto the cutting board like a casualty of war, and he stains the front of his shirt. “I— I got it, fuck— I’m so sorry.” He stumbles backwards away from the scene of the crime and into Jared’s chest.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Richard hears from behind him. A dishrag swoops into his vision and dabs at the counter. Evidence of Richard’s mistake is soaked up. “The knife must be dull. When was the last time you sharpened your knives? A dull knife is actually more dangerous than a sharpened one.”

The question hangs in the air. Richard didn’t even know that knives could be resharpened, so he lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Here, I’ll show you how to handle it,” Jared says pleasantly— always so goddamn pleasantly. He sidles up behind Richard and nabs the knife from him. His arms box Richard in against the counter as his other hand grabs the tomato on the cutting board. “Like this,” he instructs, voice soft and low in Richard’s ear. With deft hands, he makes quick work of the next three tomatoes; three tomatoes worth of time that Richard stands pressed against Jared’s chest, getting drowsy on the scent of sandalwood and soap. He smells just faintly of sweat from their brief midday walk to the store, but even that is sweet to Richard— and he’s a little disgusted at himself for that.

“You got that?” Jared asks. He steps away, leaving Richard’s shoulders empty and cold.

“Uh…” He sniffs, snaps back into the moment. “Yeah. Yup, I got it.” Richard nods, arms folded, fidgeting. “Wedges. Tomatoes.”

“Great, I’ll get started on the base, then. Just be careful, alright?”

Richard eyes the knife warily, but then takes a deep, centering breath, and a long drag of his wine. He can cut tomatoes.

 

—

 

The sizzle of the white wine hitting the pan buzzes against Richard’s ears. He leans against the counter and watches Jared stir and simmer and saute as needed, and Richard wonders briefly just how long Jared’s been cooking. From the looks of it, he’s no amateur. Conversation ebbs and flows genially, and Richard even gets Jared to laugh at one point, loud and unselfconscious. Richard could keep going like this all night, but soon silence settles around them like a dog at the end of a bed, and he’s being asked:

“So what’s your date like?”

“What?” Richard looks up at Jared, wine glass in hand.

“Well,” he licks his lips, glances briefly away from Richard. The slightest of sighs escapes his lips before he’s back and bright and beaming. “What’re they like? How’d you meet them?”

“Work.” Richard frowns. The wine starts tingling in his brain, mixing unpleasantly along with his anxiety. “Passed them at work.”

Jared stares, blinks. The kitchen lights hum above, and Richard distantly hears a siren down the street. Jared nods, a strange look crossing his face, as if he’s about to ask a question— something personal, something heady, and Richard almost wants him to; he wants him to dig fingers into the saran wrap layers Richard’s suffocating under. Instead, Jared takes a polite sip of his own wine, and the mask is back. “I’m sure whoever they are, they’re very lucky to have caught your interest.”

Richard shakes his head down at the floor. “No, I’m just— It’s. They're great. I’m just a dumbass sometimes, Jared. You of all people know that. I can’t even cut tomatoes right.”

“Richard… you’re the smartest person I know." Jared frowns, confusion evident on his face.

“No, no, I’m not. I mean, yeah, okay, I can hack out a code, but what else? What else is there to Richard Hendricks? My social skills are barely passable, I’ve been described as ‘neurotic as fuck’ by more than one ex, and— and I just,” he sighs. “I’m not sure what else is out there for me sometimes, you know? I’ve split my time between Tulsa, California, and New York. Sometimes I just wake up in bed and stare at the ceiling. Fuck, sorry. That was… a lot.” Richard wants to hide his face behind his hands. It was almost impressive how severely he veered off course with that ramble.

A beat.

“I got to meet you, Richard. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Richard looks up. He zips his hoodie up the rest of the way for lack of anything else to do. “I mean… yeah.” He wants to continue, to add on, ‘More like, I got to meet _you,_ Jared,’ but the words stick in his throat.

“I got to meet you, and you— you helped me realize that I was stuck, Richard. Stuck at Hooli, stuck in that bleak corporate life. Gavin built a soulless machine, Richard, and you… you rescued me. I would’ve died there without ever giving it a second thought.”

He steps into Richard’s space, raises a hand— but then drops it.

Richard blames what he says next on the wine. “The paella’s for you.”

Jared looks like he’d just been shocked by a particularly staticky blanket. “Pardon?”

Richard sucks in a breath and rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s all for you. I’m— fuck. I tried to… ask you on a…” he chokes a little bit. “On a date. I wanted to cook dinner with you because that sounded like something stupidly romantic, right? But I just— I just got so fucking nervous, and suddenly it became this stupid facade of asking you to help me cook for my date, but then you stood behind me and cut tomatoes, and you're amazing, Jared, alright? You're kind, caring, attentive, smart, and… and… oh, god.” He slaps himself in the face. “God, I’m such a fucking _idiot._ ”

Jared blinks at him, and suddenly Richard is inhaling a sharp breath of fresh air. Jared’s fingers dig into the saran wrap Richard’s been suffocating himself under, peeling it away to pull him into a kiss. It’s just a press of lips and their noses mash together, and Richard’s pretty sure the paella starts to burn, but finally he can breathe.

 

—

 

“I didn’t… misread the situation, did I?”

“No, oh god, no, you didn’t, Jared.”

“Kissing you without asking first was alright?”

“I'm pretty sure I've been trying all day to ask you to kiss me.

Richard is kissed again and again.

 

—

 

The paella turns out delicious, even if the tomatoes are a touch on the butchered side and some of the vegetables had burned. Richard had been designated to stirring duty, and Jared graciously did the majority of the prep work until pouring in the rice and setting it to bake in the oven. It’s a slow process, both cooking dinner and drudging up the words to explain himself, but Richard feels lighter now. Jared is patient with him, letting Richard acclimate to casual touches and words of affection. If Richard had any control over himself, he’d take it all right now and right here, but his nerves hold him back. And, well, Jared says that’s okay. And if Jared says it’s okay, then Richard figures that, maybe, it really is okay.

And maybe, just maybe, there really is more to Richard Hendricks— as long as Jared Dunn is by his side.


End file.
